A Lesson in Stillness
by nyxlily
Summary: Dean is dying, and Sam is being SO unhelpful. At least from Dean's POV.


**Title:** A Lesson in Stillness  
**Category:** Gen  
**Rating**: R (for language)  
**Word count:** 1,510  
**Summary**: Dean is dying, and Sam is being SO unhelpful. At least from Dean's POV.  
**A/N**: **spndailylife** challenge. Prompt: MONKSHOOD - Beware, A Deadly Foe is Near. Apparently I'll take advantage of deadlines to the last possible minute. This story started out completely different in style, plot, tone.. okay, everything but the Winchesters. This is more an experiment than anything (different POVs of the same scene), just to see how it works. Also, I've always wanted to write a gratuitous Dean whump, and this is my attempt. Probably need more whumpage.

* * *

"Hold still, Dean." 

"Go to Hell," Dean said – tried to say. The effort of moving his lips was far greater than anticipated, and his reply came out sounding more like a long, noisy exhalation than actual words.

On an instinctive level, he knew that Sam was near. Dean even suspect it was he who had told him not to move. Only it hadn't sound like Sam. But then, Dean didn't think he was moving, either; perhaps he was mistaken in that, too.

Dean was aware of a pain, sharp and immediate, in his chest. When he tried to find the reason for it, though, hands held him firm, with a repeated, "Hold. Still." This time, the direction was given as an order.

Taking orders from his little brother had never been high up on his to-do list. Defiance fueled him with a strength more than mere curiosity could have supplied; he lifted his head to gaze down his body, tried to focus his eyes enough to see the source of the problem.

Dean's breath hitched, as if in reflex, when his molasses-slow brain finally processed what he was seeing: there was something sticking out of his chest – correction, there was a fucking _knife_ buried to the hilt in his fucking _chest_! Dean didn't know whether to be indignant or angry or scared, his mind too muddled and overwhelmed by the incongruent sight of his body violated in such a manner to form coherent thoughts.

Perhaps it was panic that trigged this absolute _need _to remove the foreign object from his chest; his struggles renewed in vigor as he tried to lift his arm to the knife handle, but Sam was once again there to prevent movement. Dean could only curse his unhelpful sibling in his mind when his mouth again failed to voice his displeasure.

"Dean," Sam said, voice pitched low and slow so that he had to work to hear him. "It's okay, don't struggle. It'll be over soon." But Dean did not find it at all comforting; Sam's words held a note of finality that was less than reassuring.

Aside from the pain and his absolute asshole of a brother, breathing was also becoming an issue, and he felt something warm trickle out the side of his mouth. "Sam," he half pleaded, half questioned.

"Trust me," his little brother whispered. Sam's hand was covered in blood, Dean discovered, holding the knife in place. His life was leaking out of his chest and Sam was holding him down with his bloody hand on the knife and the knife in his chest and none of it made sense.

"It's going to be okay," Sam said again, monotoned, his face impassive.

The man holding him down wasn't Sam, Dean concluded, because Sam would be doing _something _instead of just sitting there telling him, _"it'll be over soon." _What the hell did that mean, anyway? He couldn't breathe and he was in agony and something warm was bubbling up his throat and this man was going to let him bleed to death.

Sam's lips lifted in a cracked smile, as if in mockery, when he noticed Dean staring at him. "What's the matter, big brother? A little pain getting to you?"

Dean's natural emotional response was anger for the implied slight to his character. His eyes suddenly found focus and he pinned the man leaning over him with a glare. Sam's smile softened, his eyes held a glimmer of amusement as he said, "That's what I thought." Confusion clouded Dean's mind again, the doubts brought up receding in the light teasing and easy smile that couldn't be anyone else but Sam's.

"I can't believe you fell for that." Sam shook his head, and the fragrance of deep woods and leafy herb drifted from him. Dean stiffened as the scent stirred up memories that warned of enemy and danger. Fragments of the hunt still eluded him, but simple self-preservation brought up the relevant details: the woody scent was the precursor of the thing they hunt, a warning that they were getting near to their target, or their target to them.

What he could remember was of Sam was saying something next to him that made him laugh. Then he scented the fragrance in the air and suddenly he felt this pressure in his chest, and he was thinking how the warning system _sucked_ when his legs buckled. His brother yelled at him, and he would have answered if there had been enough air to spare for words.

Dean suddenly realized that Sam _reeked_ of the plant, of monkshood (as he insisted on calling it, because it sounded way funnier than wolfsbane), and his instincts screamed at him to move – it wasn't safe. Sam only held him tighter.

"I'm going to kill you _myself_ if you don't hold still, you crazy bastard," Sam said tightly as he strained to pin Dean in place. There was warning in Sam's voice, but also desperation. Dean didn't care. His body was in shock from pain and blood loss, and it and the hunt and looming sense of danger all warred for his attention.

Dean knew he was fading, knew he had laid there too long for him to do anything about it. Sam was watching him with clouded eyes, and Dean couldn't think clearly enough to puzzle out why Sam was letting him die. He felt betrayed.

Then he felt nothing.

* * *

Sam cursed his brother, always too stubborn to let Sam take care of him. When Dean failed to listen to his direction the first time, he tried ordering instead. "Hold. Still," Sam bit out. Of course, Dean decided that that was an invitation to move even _more_.

"Christ, Dean," Sam whispered as he tried to immobilize his brother and the knife, and he couldn't help but blanched at the sight. Warm blood flowed out in a steady stream, and he wondered where the _hell_ the ambulance was.

It didn't help that they were in rural country on an abandoned farm. But the town was close, he'd just have to see to it that Dean held on long enough until help showed up.

Dean was panicking, too out of it to realize what a _bad_ idea it would be to pull the knife out. Sam tried to control his own panic, to let Dean know it'd be all right. He tried to speak low and slow in hopes his voice wouldn't betray his fear. "It'll be over soon." He grimaced after the words left his mouth, realizing too late what the words could imply.

"Sam," Dean said breathlessly, questioning. Sam wished he could ease his struggle for oxygen, could help beyond muttering meaningless words.

"Trust me," Sam said, and almost crumbled. He continued as he focused on slowing the bleeding, trying to keep his voice steady, not knowing if he succeeded, "It's going to be okay."

Dean was studying him, and he tried to smile and made light of this whole thing, knowing Dean needed it. Teasing him produced the expected result – Dean's focus seemed to sharpen as he glared at Sam, and Sam couldn't help the relief. "I can't believe you fell for that." Sam shook his head in exasperation. Of course Dean would respond to a perceived slur against him.

Then Dean was struggling again, and Sam struggled against him. Frustration and fear ran through Sam at the possible damage his brother was inflicting on himself. He couldn't help but grit out, "I'm going to kill you _myself_ if you don't hold still, you crazy bastard." Only a sibling could make another want to commit fratricide while trying to save his life.

Dean stilled almost abruptly. Sam stilled with him, frozen in place momentarily before sense was restored. "God, Dean," Sam whispered as he fumbled for a pulse. It was there, but slow. So slow. Dean's clammy skin was pale in the yellow light of the room's lone bulb.

It seemed longer than the ten minutes it took for the paramedics to arrive. During that time Sam kept his hand on Dean's heart, counting out the beats and breathing in sync with his brother – rapid and shallow. It wasn't until the men pried him away that he realized that they were there, and learned that breathing in sync with someone with a chest wound was a bad idea when he found himself almost too dizzy to stand up.

It was later, when he was in the hospital and Dean was out of danger, that he realized how lucky they were that the paramedics had ignored the strange lump half hidden in the closet, where he had finally managed to corner and kill the damned _thing_.

He resolved not to tell Dean, because he would somehow turn this around so that Sam would be the clumsy little brother who almost screwed up and it was Dean who had came to the rescue by distracting those innocent people with his bleeding all over the place.

No, it was better to leave that part out.


End file.
